


The Art of Disguise

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Amused Thrawn, Art appreciation, Bathing/Washing, Body Paint, Clueless Pryce, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossdressing, Cute, Embarrassment, F/M, Face Paint, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Imperial Officers, Invented Customs, Lothal, Military Uniforms, Sexual Tension, don't get too excited, halloween fic, just over the sink, thryce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-11-01 11:23:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: Against her better judgment, Governor Arihnda Pryce agrees to participate in her office's Halloween Costume Roulette.





	1. Chapter 1

Governor Arihnda Pryce had been roped into the Halloween Costume Roulette office pool against her will. Her secretary had promised more than once that it would improve her standing with the “team,” the ingratiating way he referred to her collective subordinates serving in the Governor’s office. More to shut him up than out of any real interest, she’d agreed.

The rules were simple. Everyone put one and exactly one costume idea on a scrap of dataflimsy into the chance droid, AB-NE1. Aybee took all submissions and ensured no one would receive their own for the drawing. At the weekly staff meeting, the droid would announce the costume assignments for the Lothal Imperial Halloween Party, where all the capital’s bureaucrats and upstanding citizens would shed glitz and glamour in favor of gory and ghoulish. 

Pryce knew lots of people looked forward to the event, but they weren’t like the costume parties she’d enjoyed as a child. Every year it seemed more people dressed up as characters from popular holos or even real-life or historical personalities, like Risha Synata or Figrin D’an. But Pryce preferred more traditional scary outfits, like Death Troopers or Korriban zombies.

So when Aybee hovered at her desk, she didn’t take long to input “terentatek” and leave it at that. It would be a challenging outfit for whomever was unfortunate enough to summon her entry, but at least it would allow a mask—a gift in her opinion.

At the meeting four days later, her staff sat stiffly around the conference table. The holo display winked to life as the droid began displaying in reverse rank order the names of each individual and their assigned costume. There was plenty of good-natured laughter and smiles as one by one they learned their fate. Pryce was a little jealous at the Mandalorian Supercommando that her assistant was fortunate enough to get. A wonderful way to attend the party completely anonymously, in a kickass outfit that was relatively easy to replicate.

As the boss, her name was drawn last. A hush fell as the assignment popped up next to her name on the holo display: Grand Admiral Thrawn.

“Is this some sort of joke?” she asked in a steely voice before she could help herself.

It was Aybee that answered.

“All costume submissions have been approved and vetted by the Lothal Party Planning Committee. Assignments are non-transferable and non-negotiable. Refusal to participate is considered breach of contract, and will result in removal from Party Planning guest lists for sixteen standard months.”

Pryce glared at the mechanical beast that had just ruined her life.

“We’ll see about that.”

~~

She was the _governor_, and there was no way the Party Planning Committee could ban her from events or penalize her for breaking rules. Pryce railed at the Committee chair, T’ca Elen, slamming her hand on his desk the following morning.

“This is clearly some type of attempt to undermine my authority,” she growled. “Someone tampered with the chance droid, and now—”

T’ca stood up, not as intimidated as she wanted him to be.

“Governor Pryce, I understand your concern and you have quite clearly explained your complaint in this matter. I am willing to—in this one instance only—break our rules on your behalf. However, may I suggest an alternative?”

Relief flooded through her at his words. How refreshing, to have someone in her bureaucracy who understood the importance of appearances, as well as keeping in his Governor’s good graces. Placated, she sat back down, and he did the same.

“Hear me out, please, Governor.”

She nodded curtly, folding her hands on her uniformed knee.

“Your secretary is well-acquainted with my son; they were schoolmates and stay in touch.” 

Pryce raised an eyebrow, failing to see the relevance of this information. The anger that had somewhat been assuaged threatened to resurface.

“Pardon my saying so, Governor, but you are not seen as particularly…approachable among your staff.”

“I don’t care if they like me,” she snapped, “as long as they do their jobs.”

T’ca nodded, understanding. “Yes, of course, but have you considered how it will appear, for no one else in the entire sector to break this rule except you? It’s a party, not a political event. You are refusing to participate in what is supposed to be a team-building exercise, for which you willingly enrolled.”

She saw his point, and quite frankly didn’t care. All parties were political events. And for Pryce, her relationship with the commander of the Seventh Fleet was far more important than the combined camaraderie that she would never be able to sufficiently foster among the bureaucrats that served beneath her.

“I appreciate your candor,” she sneered, “and my secretary’s…concern, if not discretion.” She stood up, ready to leave. “But nonetheless—”

“Why not speak with Grand Admiral Thrawn,” T’ca interrupted with a wince, “and see what he suggests?”

Pryce didn’t even try to keep her expression controlled at that preposterous idea.

“I’m quite serious Governor. I understand the Grand Admiral is quite knowledgeable regarding teamwork and is well-liked by his subordinates. Perhaps he could provide some guidance in this instance.”

She began to speak, sputtered, closed her mouth. Thinking. 

He had a point. And word would no doubt reach Thrawn regarding her unfortunate costume assignment, even if she got out of it. At least this way she could diplomatically apologize for the insult, and let him know that her staff would be disciplined for insubordination.

“Very well, then. I will speak with the Grand Admiral.” Pryce straightened, hoping she looked as commanding as she wished. “But you should nonetheless remove my name from the costume roulette participant list.”

“Understood, Governor Pryce.”

~~

It hadn’t taken long to arrange for a shuttle to the _Chimaera_, high in orbit over the planet. Pryce strode down the ramp with a purpose, pleased to see Thrawn there to greet her. She had decided to have this conversation in person, rather than over the holo, where spies could hear her humiliation and record her apology for later manipulation.

“Permission to come aboard, Grand Admiral,” she mustered a smile, delivering the standard protocol.

“Permission granted, Governor Pryce,” he smiled back, lips thinned and pressed together. “You are always welcome.”

That was a nice addition, Pryce thought, as she walked alongside towards the command center. Thrawn stopped just short of it, steering her into his private office. She sat in a guest chair, a sinking feeling in her chest. How to broach the subject? How to explain what—

“I assume this is regarding Halloween Costume Roulette?” Thrawn arched an eyebrow as he took his seat behind the desk.

Eyes rounded in surprise, Pryce quickly recovered.

“Yes, but how did you know?”

To her astonishment, Thrawn laughed, a low, pleasant sound that rolled around the office walls before dissipating. 

“As soon as the submissions were approved by the Committee,” he grinned, although she failed to see the humor in the situation, “the _Chimaera’s_ political attachée detailed to the capital flagged the appearance of my name.”

Thrawn leaned back in his chair, templing his fingers, and looked straight at her, smile still on his lips. “So I expected your call, although I had no idea it would be you personally drawing the assignment.”

Pryce felt confused, but was grateful for his ease regarding the affront. “Unfortunately, yes,” she answered carefully. “I apologize, Grand Admiral, and when I discover which of my staff made the submission, I assure you they will be severely punished. I’ve already begun an inquiry and the chance droid will be examined tomorrow to determine the culprit.”

Thrawn waved a blue hand as if it was of little importance. “So then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Governor? Are you checking to see if I have a uniform in your size, perhaps?”

Struck speechless, she shook her head. He seemed to take pity on her then.

“Governor, I find Halloween to be one of Lothal’s more bizarre festivities, it is true, but the traditions quite fascinate me. It is my understanding that often well-known public figures are included among the costumes on display?”

“Yes, Grand Admiral, but this—” He waited for her to continue, but she had to rethink how to phrase such an undiplomatic explanation. He wasn’t very savvy about such things. 

“This, I am afraid, was intended to insult you, and humiliate me. Even if technically it would be considered an acceptable choice for dress-up.”

His red eyes narrowed, just slightly, and his fingers slipped between the knuckles of his hands. 

“I see.”

There was an awkward silence, and finally Pryce broke it, leaning slightly in as if to confide something.

“That’s why I’m here. I wanted to let you know the situation, and make sure you were aware that the offender will regret their audacity.”

Her words seemed to have little effect. Thrawn’s glowing eyes studied her, curiosity in his gaze.

“So what then, will you wear as a costume? It was my understanding that assignments were binding?”

Pryce swallowed. That was not the response she expected to her assurance.

“Yes, those are the rules. However, an exception will be made for the Governor.” She felt her chest tighten. “Considering the “costume” was submitted with ulterior, damaging motives.”

Thrawn’s right hand disappeared, pressing a soundless alert. Moments later, a small server droid floated into the room.

“Do you drink brandy, Governor?”

She was perplexed at the apparent non-sequitur. “Yes, but—”

He addressed the droid. “Two Savareen brandies.”

When it had departed, Thrawn stood up and walked to the other side of his desk, sitting in the opposite chair. Pryce sat up straighter, wondering if the Grand Admiral was prone to drinking his problems away. She certainly wouldn’t have guessed it.

“Governor. If you do _not_ attend as me, you will lose the respect of your staff.” 

Before she could answer, the droid buzzed back in, setting two generous glasses before them and disappearing.

“If I believe your interpretation as to motivation, one of them wished to humiliate you. Or me.” Thrawn shook his head as if to discount such foolishness. “But the rest of your subordinates will see this as weakness—elitism. Placing yourself above the rules at a completely non-work-related event, for something as frivolous as pride.” 

How dare he lecture her! Pryce would have thought the Grand Admiral understood her reasons—he wasn’t exactly humble, after all—but Thrawn held up a blue finger at her outraged look. He continued speaking, voice unchanged, not argumentative, completely bloodless in the face of her anger. “At an event where pride is discarded in favor of revelry, correct?” 

Thrawn sipped his drink without any self-consciousness, nodding towards hers. Feeling completely at sea, Pryce swallowed rather a larger amount than intended, but managed not to cough.

“If you had drawn a Twi’lek dancing girl, or a Keyorin courtesan, would you also refuse to participate?”

He had a point. She likely would have worn something skimpy or slavish without a second thought. She’d half-expected it really, although of course the outfits Thrawn had mentioned were technically perhaps beneath an Imperial Governor. Pryce wondered why he’d chosen such…sexy options as examples.

“That’s different,” she sighed, not sure how to explain. “Those are not uncommon, and it would have been a random assignment, not targeted to … ” She took another sip of the brandy, unable to finish the sentence.

“Not targeted to embarrass us?” he finished for her.

Pryce nodded mutely, somehow pleased that he’d made this about the two of them instead of just her or just him. Xenophobia was rampant, and it was reasonable to assume he was the subject of many a smear campaign. Frankly Pryce didn’t know how he handled it so well. She was stunned at Thrawn’s reaction to this whole thing. Shouldn’t he feel some greater indignation? 

Apparently she was insulted enough for both of them.

“You are correct. It won’t go over well with people who know I am breaking the rules. The Party Planning chair said as much.” She paused, seeing his look. “And yes, everyone probably will find out that I _did_ break the rules—gossip spreads like Freyan creeper moss—but the alternative is unacceptable.”

“I believe I have a solution, Governor,” Thrawn replied gently. “One that will demonstrate, shall we say, a more sporting approach to this particular challenge.”

Pryce somehow had known he would have an answer, but couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. She drained the rest of the brandy in a gulp, readying herself for whatever advice he was about to give. She was hopeful, but also not naïve—political nuance could be lost on Thrawn.

“Sporting?”

He nodded, also finishing his drink. “I was planning to attend the event myself, for the reasons previously mentioned. Cultural traditions are fascinating, and costumes are wearable art, after all.” 

If Thrawn was the type of man who winked, Pryce thought, he would have just done so. She felt it in his manner, his ease. Whatever he was about to propose, he clearly was enjoying the idea.

“I shall attend as you, Governor Pryce, and you will attend as me.”

It was a good thing that she’d already finished her drink, or Pryce would have spat it all over him in her surprise. Shock was evident on her face, but she battened it down, realizing only as he held her gaze what an ingenious solution it was.

“I have no costume assignment, so I am free to choose my disguise, correct?”

She nodded, a slow smile starting to spread on her lips.

“We shall arrive together, so there is no mistake regarding our mutual agreement and acceptance of the costumes.” He smiled back. “Nothing more embarrassing than—how shall we put it—seasonally and socially acceptable cross-dressing?”

Pryce laughed out loud then, wanting to kiss him for the brilliance of the plan. The urge was sudden, completely inappropriate, and terribly real. She smothered it with a mixture of horror and shock.

“Grand Admiral Thrawn,” she proclaimed, “you’re a genius.”

He smirked. “It is nice to be appreciated, Governor Pryce.”

They spent the next half-hour plotting their costumes. Thrawn had an old uniform she could have tailored to her size. They searched together on the HoloNet to find the best places to buy wigs, the most reputable skin painting artists in the capital, and determine which vision lenses or eye color dyes would be most vibrant.

It was fun, Pryce realized, being reminded of creating her Dathomirian Witch outfit when she was twelve. Her mother had helped her decorate some shimmersilk to look like lizard skin, and spent an hour braiding her hair into elegant and complicated knots. It had been one of her favorite Halloweens; everyone at her school had agreed she looked fierce and dangerous. Pryce warmed at the memory, turning her attention back to the Grand Admiral’s holonet display.

Once they had completed their research, Thrawn invited her to stay for dinner. They dined in his private mess over fried gizka steak. He was truly interested in the origins and myths of Halloween, and Pryce found she enjoyed sharing her knowledge and memories with him. After a dessert of bilaberry patogga, they made plans to go shopping incognito the following week. Pryce couldn’t remember the last time she was so excited for a Halloween party. And to go together, with the Grand Admiral at her side, she could already see the amazed and amused expressions of those who had misjudged them both.


	2. Chapter 2

As the night wound down, Pryce allowed herself a relaxed sigh. Against the odds, against all her pessimistic expectations, the plan had been an inarguable success. 

Two minutes after she and Thrawn entered the Lothal Imperial Halloween Party, it was clear that besides being gobsmacked by the sight of the two highest ranking individuals on the planet in one another’s clothing, the crowd was most firmly and definitely on their side. After the initial rounds of astonished laughter, compliments came fast and furious. The admiration of her staff and the other guests seemed sincere. More than one colleague had approached her, badly hiding their shock at her sense of humor and adherence to the difficult costume assignment. 

Everyone was so positive, in fact, it was hardly a surprise that she and Thrawn tied for first place in the Best Costume competition. The prize, dinner for two at _The Yellow Nek_, Capital City’s most celebrated and exclusive restaurant, was hardly impressive, but she’d accepted with good grace. Thrawn had taken the small trophy and it had since disappeared; she could only assume he’d had it sent back to the Chimaera with a lackey. Pryce didn’t mind—despite the disaster he’d helped her avert with this plan, she wasn’t sure she wished to dwell on the experience for long. No need for a souvenir. Next year, she would be off-planet on official business for the Halloween season. That was already certain.

Pryce took another sip from her Sonic Servodriver and looked to her right, where Thrawn was listening with what appeared to be genuine interest to a young clerk’s explanation of Lothalian Trick or Treating customs. 

The Grand Admiral had really stolen the show, and Pryce was more than content to keep to the sidelines. The black wig he wore curved up at his jawline, looking less ridiculous than it should have, and the grey uniform suited him. It was amazing that he had found vision lenses which completely covered his lambent gaze. An off-world supplier had expedited the amazingly realistic blue irises that now glanced her way. 

Thrawn’s mouth tilted slightly, his faux blue eyes pure and jarring, and then his gaze shifted back to the woman prattling on about the dilemma of whether or not to reward those who refused to dress up but wanted candy regardless. 

Pryce couldn’t interpret the Grand Admiral’s look—amused or bored or confused? Perhaps all three. Sometimes she thought she was getting good at reading him, and then an unfathomable twist of his lips or flex of his jaw and she’d be lost again.

It was getting late, and they had conspired to leave together, as they had arrived. Thrawn believed it made the most sense, to complete the cooperative and comical impression they wished to convey. Pryce looked down at her gloved hands, nodding politely to the section chief who praised her “coloring.” She’d lost track of the questions she had fielded about the costumes, but no one had been disrespectful or insubordinate, so Pryce answered most of them, and gently excused herself when she got sick of the topic.

A durasteel-silver Mandalorian was marching her way. Pryce lifted her glass in greeting, grudgingly impressed with her secretary’s disguise. He yanked off his helmet with a grin. Of all her staff, he was one of the few that hadn’t seemed upset when the offending office worker responsible for her predicament had been rapidly reassigned. 

“Governor. You guys are really a hit.”

Pryce returned his smile, matching the brilliance but not the enthusiasm. The man had obviously had a bit to drink.

“Thank you. You’ve done justice to your assignment as well.”

“Thanks Governor Pryce!” His smile got bigger but Pryce kept hers at the lower wattage. “You really do look fantastic. And,” he added, voice dropping to a deeper register as if imparting a secret, “the Grand Admiral! No one knew he could be anything other than serious.”

Pryce arched an eyebrow, her tone icy.

“Grand Admiral Thrawn is _entirely_ serious. He takes _everything_ seriously, including Halloween costumes.”

Her secretary looked taken aback, and Pryce laughed, letting him off the hook. The man was horrible at reading people—why he was a low-level drone and not a politician or diplomat.

“I’m joking, of course. I believe Grand Admiral Thrawn may actually be having fun.” As the words left her lips, Pryce found she believed them, peeking in her subject’s direction.

Thrawn had escaped the Trick or Treat authority and moved closer to the door, eyes already fixed upon her. When Thrawn caught her looking, he jerked his head slightly, something of a summons to it. Perhaps it was about that time.

“I’ll see you at the office,” she said, ignoring the questioning look on her secretary’s face.

Making her way slowly over to her unconvincing doppelganger, Pryce wondered how differently the night would have gone if she’d followed her own instincts instead of his.

“Grand Admiral,” he greeted her, real humor in his voice. 

“Governor,” she returned, for the benefit of anyone eavesdropping, amused despite herself. Thrawn really was enjoying all this, it was clear. It was probably the only reason she’d survived the party. If he’d been awkward, or anything approaching uncomfortable, she would have regretted their “sporting” decision and departed much sooner.

“Shall we?” Thrawn lifted his chin briefly in the direction of the exit.

“Yes,” she responded, taking a last look around the room. So many eyes on them, it was a bit unnerving. But Thrawn had planned their exit like he planned everything, down to the last detail. His stormtrooper bodyguard regiment suddenly appeared, lining the sides of the portal. Thrawn left first, to no fanfare. Then, as Pryce followed, the four elite soldiers snapped to attention, saluting in unison. She saluted back, and the onlookers burst into applause as she went out into the chill night air.

Thrawn was waiting in his armored speeder, but not in the back as when they had arrived. His driver was nowhere in sight. One of the Capitol valets opened the front passenger door for her. Confused, Pryce slid onto the seat at Thrawn’s side.

“That was most educational,” he declared, sounding smug. Thrawn’s security escort took up their places around the transport as he started away from the Capitol Building. She hadn’t ever seen him drive, and found the experience strange for some unnameable reason. 

“That was _insane_,” Pryce corrected, sinking back against the plush seat. “I can’t believe we pulled it off.”

Thrawn removed the wig from his head with a small chuckle, tossing it into the back seat. She’d gotten used to his laughter over the past few weeks. It was rare, but it was always as pleasant as it was surprising. Pryce took off hers as well, mimicking his careless throw behind them. 

He looked almost normal in silhouette, now the wig was off, shadows hiding the extent of the makeup lightening his complexion. She, on the other hand, was hours away from being completely de-Thrawned. It wasn’t fair, she thought, taking in his sharp profile in the darkness, the streetlights lining Lothal’s thoroughfares streaking his features with odd regularity as they raced past the downtown district. 

The silence stretched between them, and Pryce realized she was staring. She turned her gaze down abruptly to her white-gloved hands. She had enjoyed the time with him, leading up to tonight’s event—the shopping, the HoloNet research, the trial applications and clothing fittings. She’d seen a different side of him—less staid, unguarded, even. It had put her at ease, but now the moment had ended. The enchantment was wearing off, she thought, with a wry twist of her lips. Pryce hadn’t really given much consideration to the post-party reality, but now it was hard to ignore. 

The speeder had stopped, idling in front of the Galactic Shadow Suites, where the _Chimaera’s_ entourage was staying. She looked up in curiosity to see Thrawn watching her. It was unsettling, to be robbed of his crimson eyes. The blue he wore was pretty; he claimed it was almost a perfect match to hers, a boast that had made her feel warm and embarrassed and annoyed all at once. But it wasn’t him, and it was oddly disturbing.

Thrawn held her gaze, saying nothing. With a loud rumble of speeder bikes, his stormtrooper escort peeled away. Once they were gone, Thrawn continued driving towards the city outskirts. 

More confused than ever, Pryce wondered if his thoughts were in any way similar to hers of a moment ago. But she wasn’t as good with silence as he was, so she finally found something to say.

“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure exactly what the thanks were for, but felt they were owed.

“My pleasure,” he responded without pause. The words sounded automatic, and he glanced at her again. Pryce could only imagine what she must look like. Surely the body paint was smudged and uneven, her eyelids dry and itchy from the dryness caused by her own vibrant red lenses—custom made at Thrawn’s insistence. 

“Where are we—” Pryce cut herself off. It was stupid, to ask where he was taking her. Clearly to her home, that wasn’t really the question. But where was his driver and why had his escort left them?

Thrawn didn’t answer at first. She hoped he was giving her a pass for the almost-question, but then he spoke.

“To your residence, Governor,” he said. “Unless you have another suggestion?”

It sounded teasing, somehow, and she felt even sillier than before. Pryce cursed her own lack of wit. She couldn’t come up with anything that would cut the tension building around her like a fog. “_Another suggestion._” What was _he_ suggesting? It was far too late to go anywhere else. They’d just left a party. Driven right by his hotel. Pryce blushed at the thought of that option, praying the blue paint was thick enough to hide her reaction from Thrawn’s infrared vision. 

What if he _had_ stopped at his hotel? That would have been… She strangled the hypothetical scenario before her brain could examine it, tried to focus on something else and not feel foolish for her own lack of response.

Thrawn was a good driver. Too good, really, as they were already speeding through the gates of the gubernatorial estate. Her security waved them through without pause, and Thrawn stopped the vehicle beneath the portico at the ornate front entrance.

A strange flutter in her stomach, airy and destabilizing, made her bite her lip, the chemical flavor of the pale pink tint coloring her mouth making things worse. The night was over, the party conquered, and things would go back to the way they were before she’d been saddled with Grand Admiral Thrawn as a costume. Nothing entertaining in their shared future, merely TIE Defender development, routing Rebels, and amassing resources for the Empire. 

She had no idea what to say, and had already thanked him. Pryce sat dumbly, at a loss. Thrawn, on the other hand, was quick on his feet, already opening her door with all the finesse of a chauffeur. She accepted the proffered hand and stepped out, her heart stopping at the contact. The end of the night. She felt like a teenager on a first date. It was maddening. 

She wasn’t. 

This wasn’t. 

Gracefully removing her gloved hand from his, Pryce tried not to contemplate Thrawn’s intentions. After all, they had started the evening at her home, getting ready, preparing makeup, bodypaint, wigs and costumes. There had been no discussion regarding the post-party clean-up, however, and Pryce had assumed Thrawn would return to his downtown hotel. 

Why was she even thinking about this? The Grand Admiral stood motionless at her side, waiting. But for what?

Pryce stiffly took a step, as if unsure of her direction. Thrawn matched it, and she gave herself a mental shake. Walking her to the door. Very polite. He was well-mannered, most of the time. Gallant, even, compared to the average bureaucrat or government official. Maybe it was his species’ societal norms. It didn’t mean anything.

The burgundy portal slid open and she turned away from the darkened interior to smile a good night. But Thrawn wasn’t smiling, a grimace flashing across his face.

“I wonder if I might trouble you for the use of your facilities?”

Embarrassed on his behalf, Pryce nodded quickly, but he continued. 

“These lenses are quite uncomfortable,” he gestured to his bizarrely blue eyes, “and I can remove them more easily with a mirror.”

Pryce stepped inside, ushering him into the darkness as the portal slid shut.

“Of course.” She reached for the illumination controls but a strong hand gripped her wrist, stopping the movement.

“I am afraid the irritation has made me rather sensitive to light at the moment, if you do not mind,” Thrawn apologized.

“Not at all.” It was so _dark_, though. She was a bit afraid of stumbling in her own house, and now she had to guide him. “Please follow me.”


	3. Chapter 3

The closest refresher was just off the main entryway, but it was rather small and didn’t have the amenities of her personal one. Making a snap decision, Pryce passed the nondescript door and walked deeper into the mansion. A small thud sounded as her guest bumped into a poorly-placed occasional table.

“Thrawn?” It slipped out, the name without the title. Pryce held her breath, both hoping he wouldn’t notice and knowing he inevitably had.

“My vision has suffered more than I thought,” he said evenly, holding out a hand. 

No comment on her change of address. 

Pryce was so relieved at that, she acted unthinkingly, seizing his black-sheathed fingers in her white glove, thankful he couldn’t feel her sweat through the material. 

She carefully led him through the unlit public annex of the house towards her private apartments, glad he questioned neither the route nor length of time it was taking her to get to a refresher. 

As they headed down the final corridor, her heart pounded louder. Her eardrums throbbed and her fingers felt peculiar, disassociated from the rest of her as Thrawn held them firmly.

“I know how you feel,” Pryce chirped, an unnaturally high timbre to her voice. It was one thing to have silence, another to have darkness. Both together, combined with the fact that this was her house and her hand was clasped in his, was too much. Silence had to be sacrificed.

“My eyes are also miserable. Of course, we did the test runs, but the party went longer than expected.” She was rambling, Pryce realized, rolling her lips between her teeth. 

“Rather, we stayed longer than expected,” he corrected her implacably.

“Well, yes,” she admitted, wondering if it was an attempt to be annoying or if he just did it accidentally. “But in any case, I too wish to have my own eyes back.”

She thought he was about to respond, but they were now at the master bedroom. It was spacious, with no furniture except the large bed against the far wall. No worries about colliding with anything in the darkness. To avoid thoughts about why she’d chosen this location in the first place, Pryce yanked Thrawn roughly into the suite’s refresher.

There were dimmer settings on the illumination panel, and the room itself was fairly large and well-appointed. Pryce slapped the lowest light setting on the wall controls, cringing at the sound in the darkness.

“Here we are,” she announced. 

Thrawn didn’t let go of her hand, not right away. It was odd, as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. Pryce looked at his shadowy outline, seeing nothing she could interpret. Robbed of his glittering gaze, there wasn’t even enough light to make out his expression.

“Thank you,” he said, after what felt like a very long moment. Their hands fell apart, and his reached for the dimmer switch, apparently able to withstand a slightly higher brightness. Pryce turned to leave.

“I’ll see you back in the salon?” she said, angry when it came out like a question. She could offer him a drink, she supposed, and they could recap the evening. Everything had been fun in the planning and execution, but suddenly Pryce felt like she barely knew the alien standing next to her.

“Please,” he waved a hand towards the sink. “You mentioned your lenses were also irritating.”

True, they were dry and itchy. But not as irritating as his apparently were. Pryce smiled briefly.

“Guests first, Grand Admiral. I insist.”

“Together then,” he parried, and turned on the tap. The counter space was large, and it could certainly accommodate. Very well. She nodded, stepping to his side and pulling off her tight-fitted gloves. As she washed her hands, Pryce tried to ignore his proximity and the strange domestic aura of the entire situation. Sharing a refresher, removing their costume eyeballs—it felt abnormally normal.

Thrawn sighed as his glowing natural eyes were restored, bending his head down and splashing water over his face. He’d been able to get away with layered makeup for her skin tone, rather than the body paint required for achieving his, and it washed off easily. He rubbed vigorously then, quickly revealing blue beneath white, apparently uncaring about the small splashes of water dampening his tunic.

Pryce suddenly remembered she had medidrops for ocular hydration. Occasionally when she’d taken too many stimshots in order to meet the demands of her schedule, she had issues with dry eyes and redness. Useful now, since she couldn’t splash water on her face without turning into a melting blue candle. Pryce bent and opened the bottom cabinet, looking for the drops, but saw nothing in the dim light.

“May I assist?” Thrawn had silently crouched next to her, a curious look on his face.

“I’m looking for StimShooter drops,” she explained. “They lubricate the eyes, get rid of the redness.”

Thrawn laughed softly, so close she could feel his breath on her face. Oh, she was an idiot. She managed some levity at her gaffe.

“Yours are beyond saving, Grand Admiral.”

A brief flash of white as he smiled, then reached around her waist, so close she could feel the heat of him. Clearly he could see better than her. A moment later, he produced the small vial.

Both of them straightened, and Thrawn handed over the drops, watching closely as she squeezed some onto her aching eyeballs. Pryce sighed as some of the liquid ran down her cheeks. So much for not looking like a melting candle. 

In truth, she wanted to do nothing more than jump into the hydro unit, crank the spray to freezing, and clean the blue coating from her skin. Everything in this small room had become hot and stifling. Pryce thinned her lips, meeting Thrawn’s stare. And he _was_ staring. He’d seen her in the body paint before, when they’d tested shades and application methods. What in the world was so interesting?

“Yes?” she snapped, annoyed at the attention. She’d been nothing but polite, after all.

The word seemed to break whatever spell he’d been under. But instead of an immediate verbal response, Thrawn gently took a hold of her shoulders and angled her to face the mirror. He let go then, one finger raised and pointing illustratively at her cheek, where two rivulets of moisture had indeed warped the even patina of blue facepaint. 

“The effect is quite artistic,” he said softly. “Do you see?”

Pryce had no idea what he was talking about. Couldn’t even pretend to, although of course she knew he was borderline-obsessed with art of all sorts. She failed to see anything remarkable about runny paint on her skin.

“No, I don’t.”

Thrawn seemed to interpret her negation as an invitation, moving his finger closer to her skin as they both regarded her reflection in the mirror.

“Of course, the appearance of tears, the trite motif of the crying entertainer, could be disturbing at best, unoriginal at worst. But here—” This time Thrawn almost touched her cheek. His index finger traced the diluted paint lines where the eyedrops had trickled. “These are not careless—they seem sensitively considered. A plotted flow. Deliberate and meaningful. Art based on feeling, challenging the sentient’s ability to feel and asking if any demonstrative response is merely reaction or reflex, or rather all contrived and conditioned.”

Pryce’s lips twisted skeptically as she fought her desire to argue, then finally surrendered to it.

“So eyedrops dribbling on facepaint are an artistic commentary on the calculated use of emotion?”

He nodded, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Exactly, but here done with…visual appeal and in a medium that emphasizes the message.”

Pryce was far from stupid, but as Thrawn lowered his hand from her face, she had trouble understanding his excitement. He took her silence for question.

“The natural artistry of the face is concealed by paint. The impossible, false pigmentation is an unnatural barrier that serves to camouflage your true appearance and emotions. And even the tears,” Thrawn turned away from the mirror, looking intently at her profile to the point of making Pryce self-conscious once more. Had he just said her face had “_natural artistry_”? What did that even mean? But he was still talking.

“…the tears are a chemical compound that only _imitates_ a biological expression of sorrow or sadness.” Pryce turned to look at him, incredulous at his enthusiasm, as he continued. “The result is subtle despite the audacious coloring, thought-provoking and…”

He trailed off and Pryce’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. Thrawn didn’t often not finish sentences, in her experience.

“And?” she prompted.

“And beautiful,” he said plainly, as if only waiting to be asked.

More grateful than ever for the blue on her cheeks, Pryce’s mouth dropped slightly open at that pronouncement. He hadn’t just called her _beautiful_, had he? No, she rationalized. It was some preposterous commentary on her smudged faux-Chiss face that had drawn such an adjective from the Grand Admiral.

She swallowed, feeling an unwelcome lump in her throat. He seemed sincere but his discourse was too strange. The dim gleam from the refresher’s recessed bulbs and her ridiculous appearance made Pryce more embarrassed than she could bear.

Summoning a lighter tone in defense, she turned to face him.

“Fascinating.” Pryce commented. “Or…” She drew out the word. “Maybe you're just responding to some subconscious nostalgia generated by tears on a face whose color reminds you of home.”

It sounded mean when she said it, but Thrawn seemed to take no offense, actually considering her words.

“It is possible,” he admitted with a raised eyebrow. “Art, some argue, is as much about perception as creation.”

Pryce nodded, glad he hadn’t found her observation insulting, and reached for the pot of cream designed to remove heavy facepaint such as she wore. Thrawn watched impassively, and she wondered again why they were here and what the likely conclusion of this interlude would be… It felt less awkward than before, but still far from comfortable, to be scrutinized in her own refresher. In the company of Grand Admiral Thrawn.

“May I?” he asked, reaching for the cream. Pryce handed it to him, surprised he wanted it. The water he’d splashed on his face earlier had removed most of his makeup, and the paint remover seemed like overkill.

She had misinterpreted his intention. Thrawn plucked a tissue from the box on her counter, and dabbed it in the pot before reaching out for her face.

She startled, then braced herself. He was occupying himself with her “de-Thrawning,” as she had thought of it earlier.

He started on her forehead. The cold goop felt clotted, but Thrawn smoothed it down the narrow bridge of her nose. He set aside the used tissue and reached for a fresh one, tracing the identical path from her hairline, above her eyes, along the center of her face, wiping away the cream and blue, and revealing the milk of her natural complexion. A slight smile showed his contentment with his handiwork.

“Another artistic endeavor?” Pryce asked, before she could help herself. She did have the impression of being painted, despite the fact that he was taking off her coloring, not applying it.

Thrawn tilted his head to direct her eyes to the mirror.

Seeing her reflection, Pryce matched his grin. The white blaze in the middle of her features made her look more like a wild Dathomirian horse than a Chiss, something savage and magical. Her skin’s paleness turned everything darker in contrast—her eyes, the cobalt remaining on her cheeks.

“What would you entitle this piece of art, then, Grand Admiral?”

He laughed, reaching for a fresh tissue and dabbing it once more in the pot as she turned to face him again.

“You find art pretentious, Governor,” Thrawn remarked, no hint of question or judgment in his voice.

“I like _some_ art,” Pryce replied in her own defense. “But it _is_ sometimes pretentious. And yes, the names of works often are…” She sighed, not caring to sugarcoat it. “...Stupid,” she finished.

Cocking his head to the side, Thrawn did a perfect imitation of a pompous Coruscanti curator. “I see. Well, then, I shall title this peerless masterpiece _Sympathetic Chemistry._ Suitable for such a bold study in chiaroscuro.” He dabbed the tissue into the pot again, coating it more thoroughly, then drew lines from beneath each eye in pointed arrows down her cheeks. Stopping at her jawline, Thrawn seemed to reconsider his canvas, then took three stripes from her neck. Once the blue was erased there, they both looked again to the mirror.

“And this masterpiece?” she teased him, thinking she looked like some soldier from a primitive culture, decorated for battle.

He paused only a moment. 

“_The Call of War._” 

Thrawn pronounced it like an edict, as if he were no longer joking. They apparently shared the militaristic interpretation of this particular creation. He returned his attention to the jar of cream. Pryce sensed his mood shift.

“Do you paint?” she asked before she could weigh the wisdom of the question. “Or sculpt or anything like that?” Pryce figured she would have known if he did, but also didn’t underestimate the Grand Admiral’s ability to keep a secret.

“No,” he said simply, but she heard much in the word. Whether or not the desire was present, there were myriad reasons why Thrawn would not—should not—indulge in that type of creativity. Perhaps, she acknowledged, Thrawn was wary of someone reading his thoughts, his weaknesses, his _heart,_ the same way he discerned those of his opponents—through analysis and evaluation of artistic and cultural expression. It was a pity, though, if the Grand Admiral allowed such a fear to stifle any talent he possessed.

The tissue moved, more complicated now. Thrawn had apparently decided he enjoyed this game, and had twisted the soft paper to a point, allowing him to draw swirling patterns, removing the blue more precisely. This time when he paused, the face staring back at her in the mirror was almost her own, save for delicate laceries in whorls and webs, selectively liberating her skin from the dark blue around it. 

“This one,” he almost whispered, “we’ll call _Needless Ornamentation._”

Pryce had no response for that, but understood there could be a compliment buried in the words, and her breath hitched. He was watching her, and she managed a smile.

“Appropriately ostentatious title, Governor?” His voice was back to normal.

“That one I don’t mind,” she answered, closing her eyes and letting him finish the work of cleaning her face. She hadn’t thought about the fact that her lower neck also was painted, right down to the tunic, but Thrawn had. Without asking, he unclasped the top fastener of his old uniform to expose her throat. The cream first, then the dry tissue wiping away the last vestiges of her transformation. His touch had started almost too gentle, enticingly careful, and suddenly turned rougher and more clinical as he moved lower. 

Pryce held her breath. Her skin tingled, asking for more. But there was no more.

The final swipe of his fingers dipped into the notch between her pointed collarbones as she swallowed a gasp. Pryce opened her eyes to see Thrawn’s fiery stare in the faint illumination of the refresher, studying her face as if it were still a work of art.

“Well…” she began, simultaneously relieved and upset that he’d finished.

“I believe I have disproved your theory,” Thrawn interrupted. She tried to keep her face blank, unreadable. What was he talking about? He guessed at her confusion, gesturing with one hand towards her head. “The visual appeal is not related to the color blue, as you posited.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as if he was holding back a laugh. Tossing the used tissues into the circular receptacle set in the wall, he continued. “Nostalgia…et cetera.”

“Ah,” Pryce said, not really understanding. She busied herself by screwing the lid back on the pot of paint remover.

Thrawn gave a little sound, like air huffing through his nostrils. It smacked of amusement, and her defenses flew up. She’d enjoyed their little game, but not if it was somehow now at her expense. She cocked an eyebrow at him, a silent question as to his thought. If he got all superior on her—

“I mean to say, Governor,” Thrawn spoke as if commenting on the weather or a particularly uneventful status report, “that my favorable impression has nothing to do with your costume.” Another pause. “Or facepaint.”

Pryce coughed to cover up her surprise at the words, and managed a choked “thank you” before heading for the refresher exit. They had lingered too long, and her brain was having difficulty parsing Thrawn’s words, interpreting his evident flattery.

His hand found her white-sleeved forearm, halting her mid-step. Pryce’s pulse raced as she turned to face him, doing everything in her power to calm herself. Thrawn was looking at her as before, studying her, examining her. What did he see? Why did he seem to know why they were there when she had long since given up trying to make sense of this entire scenario?

“Arihnda,” he said softly, hand sliding down the inside of the material to her exposed wrist, tugging gently, closing the distance between them.

There were too many sensations, the confidence she felt in his touch thrilling and frightening. It was several seconds before his lapse in address—or had it been intentional?—registered.

Pryce nervously met his gaze, unable to chastise him for the familiarity when she’d used his core name earlier. But Thrawn said nothing more, an aura of expectation settling heavily around him.

“Yes?” was the only word that escaped. And that wasn’t what she meant to say at all, wasn’t how she wanted to handle his presumption or overture or whatever this was, but it was the only thing that came out.

“Your makeup…” he replied, as if that answered everything. As if it excused the elegant fingers that had now glided from her wrist to thread into hers. Like it could explain the way he’d just uttered her first name, as if it were something he had always owned and could use at will.

Before she could react, his other hand cupped her cheek.

With difficulty, she resisted leaning into that rough palm, fighting to rationalize Thrawn’s behavior.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about the possibilities—wondered at all the wrong times about the body tightly covered by his perfectly tailored uniform, or what it would be like to be lying beneath his burning gaze. 

The fantasy had seemed as likely as winning the Lothal Megamillions Lottery and being crowned Empress on the same day. Her refusal to consider such a romance was a form of self-defense, and shields like Pryce had built were not easily dismantled. They were strong and obstinate, like the woman who had constructed them. 

Yet her own senses were now begging her to trust them, buried hope clawing to the surface. Thrawn didn’t move. Waiting. Patient.

“What about my makeup?” she finally returned, her voice low and more inviting than she’d intended. Pryce blamed the warmth of his fingers, the throb of their pulses in tandem. Her body was definitely unwilling to play hard-to-get, even as her mind struggled to accept the obvious.

His thumb moved to her lips, rubbing over the pale pink color there. 

“I missed a spot,” Thrawn answered, just as quietly.

“It tastes awful,” she said automatically, unthinkingly, and then flinched in mortification at her own assumption.

“I am willing to endure,” Thrawn assured her with a hint of a smile, before lowering his head and checking for himself.


End file.
